


The Fall

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [14]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Married Couple, Pregnancy, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byakuya learns the nature of his wife's pregnancy. Rukia asks Renji for assistance. Hisana rushes to the infirmary where she must make a decision that will cost the Kuchiki family their investment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall

He blindly reaches across the mattress. The threads of the sheets lock the winter's chill in their fibers. Indeed, an icy sting nips at his fingers as they glide across the silk. But, when has hands, quiet and tender, find his wife through the cold darkness, his heart flutters. Her soft curves, growing more pronounced each day, calms him. She is there, and she is his.

He inhales a deep breath.

He is nearly swimming in her modified reiatsu. It smells of white plum and cherries. It is thick and heady. It draws him close, sparking an intense  _need_. This sensation bubbles up from his stomach, and it flashes across him, setting his heart and his mind: No harm will ever come to his family.

He has made this vow several times throughout his life. At times, he spoke it as part of a predetermined script. Other times, he made the vow out of a sense of duty, charity, or loyalty. This time, however, it is different. The vow pours out of him in the velvety blues of dawn. It sets the heart and soul on fire.

Reflexively, he pulls her close against his chest, tangles her in a tight embrace, and buries his face in her inky locks. Careless hands find their way to her swollen stomach, where they quiet contentedly. He can breathe easy with her near, knowing all is as it should be.

Without warning, he feels the silken touch of his wife's hand against the top of his. She does not speak. She hardly moves as she slides his hand down to where he can feel a gentle fluttering, like the beating of a butterfly's wings.

"He's awake." Her voice barely reaches above a whisper.

He relaxes his hand against her, letting its weight sink into the alien sensation, but, before the last of his restraint falls away, she moves his hand once more to an area where the fluttering is more pronounced.

"He's awake, too."

Immediately, Byakuya's hand snaps back. His fingers curl into his palms . It feels as if the words have burned his flesh.

Likely anticipating his surprise, Hisana gives him a languid sidelong gaze. Her eyes are tranquil but dark in the slowly receding shadows of early daybreak. With a look, she soothes his poor enflamed nervous system, which crackles and pumps adrenalin at a steady rate.

The tension in his hand melts, and he tentatively rests his palm against her. She is correct. The fluttering is of a different quality. It is more intense, fierier. And, ever so slightly, he can feel the differences in reiatsu. The children's energy infuses with their mother's and with each other, but there is a gradient. He can parse out Hisana's spiritual pressure from theirs, and he can discern some differences between the children.

_Twins._

It explains why he loses Hisana's scent at times. She is strong, but she is no match for the two children's potential. Sometimes their pressure just swallows up her own, hiding her completely. At first, he assumed his child was going to be very strong, stronger than he. But, now, it makes more sense.

"They always seem more active when you're around," she murmurs.

"I could," he begins, but she silences him with a shake of her head.

"It is nice when we are all together," she says, preempting his offer with a quiet forcefulness.

He does not attempt to clarify the unspoken sentiments lingering on his tongue even if he feels them strongly: She needs her rest, and he will not allow his presence to deprive her of it. She will require her strength, now more than ever.

But, he will not press it.

He has made enough demands on her. Every part of her day—from what she wears to her diet—has been carefully regulated and regimented. She cannot suffer the cold, which necessitates several heavy layers of garments. Additionally, she must eat "warm" food,  _not_ "cold" foods, or sweet-tasting or dark-colored treats. Sadly, this results in the consumption of food that she dislikes, which has made keeping weight on her an ordeal. And to ensure she is healthy, her weight is carefully monitored on a daily basis to make sure she is gaining enough but not  _too much._

Then, there is the issue of work. He has expressly forbidden her from working, entailing all of her responsibilities to other family members. And, while he does not regret the decision itself, he is acutely aware of the strain it places on his wife. Hisana has been a proper lady about his so-called "edicts," never questioning him. But, he knows all too well that she is a wandering soul. Like a songbird, she is content to share her songs with him, but, when he leaves, she, too, flies away. Now, however, her pregnancy has tethered her to the estate, where she safe and protected but miserable.

Perhaps (as his steward has told him a time or  _thirty_ ) he is being  _overbearing_. He does not deny traipsing over her rights or infringing on her privacy, but it is unavoidable. Just as he must perfect his skill as a solider so too must she perfect her pregnancy.

* * *

"So, why am I here?"

Rukia pours a cup of sake for Renji and then for herself. It is the good stuff. The kind from the world of the living.

Renji takes a sip. His eyes flicker from the cup to her. The question still lingers in the air, but he is patient. He would never stand between an anxious Shinigami and her drink.

She throws back her head, draining the cup completely before placing it back on the table.

Renji sits in slack-jawed awe. He did not expect  _that_. From Rukia? Is she in some sort of bind? Here he was thinking this was some trivial matter up for discussion. Guess he was wrong.

"Is," he begins but stops short when she reaches for the sake.

In silent shock, he watches as she replenishes her cup, takes a quaff, and sets it down. The clinking of the porcelain against the wood reveals it's empty.

Before she has the chance to go for another round, he preempts her. With lighting fast reflexes, the bottle of sake is sitting pretty next to him, all the way at the end of the table opposite of her. He shoots her a smug glance, his brow cocks up, and a corner of his lips slopes into a lopsided grin.

_Nope. Not going to be responsible for the drunken debauchery of a Kuchiki Princess. Not at the Kuchiki estate. Not by a mile._

"So," he tries again, but she silences him with a worried look.

Her large eyes drop to the floor, and her cheeks flush a bright pink. "I have to prepare a dance," she murmurs, timidly. For a mere second, her gaze flicks over to a white and yellow kimono stretched over a stand.

Oh, yeah. The  _kimono_. Renji noticed it on his way into the room. He didn't ask about it then. He never does. He keeps a strict "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy ever since his academy days. He just assumes there are well-articulated  _reasons_  for  _things_ , such as the motifs in Kuchiki manor.

"Did you show your sister?" he asks, lifting his sake bowl to his lips.

Rukia's face bleeds its color. Goes as white as a sheet of paper. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers, and her petal pink lips part at the sheer  _stupidity_ of his question.

 _At least_ , judging by the way she gapes at him, he  _assumes_  she finds his question devoid of any intellect. Maybe it is, but he is quick to defend his rationale, "Isn't Lady Kuchiki a trained dancer?" According to the rumors, which he has a tendency to believe where the nobility is concerned, she was purported to be among the best dancers in the Pleasure Quarters, if not  _The Best_.

And,  _The Best_  isn't a superlative that gets thrown around by the nobility, not when it comes to members of the peasantry.

" _Yes_ ," Rukia says with a heavy emphasis on the unspoken, ' _duh, Renji_ , _'_ that writes its way across her face.

Apparently, having a sibling  _trained_  in dance wasn't enough for Rukia, which leaves him baffled. Completely baffled. Until realization hits.

Pride.

Rukia is too  _prideful_ to ask for help.

He represses the urge to roll his eyes as he takes another sip from his cup. " _And_?"

" _And_ , I want Sister to be surprised when I perform the piece at the festival." .

"Well, Vice Captain Matsumoto is really proficient at dance," he says, partly to tease her and partly in earnest.

"Yeah, I know," she says sheepishly. "But, she is a Vice Captain, and busy."

Renji lifts a brow. "I think Momo enjoys  _watching_  traditional dances. She would probably know what one is supposed to look like." Inference: He has no  _damn_  idea what a traditional dance is  _supposed_  be, do, or whatever… and he doesn't really want to find out. He has received enough of an education already.

Rukia immediately swats the suggestion away with a quick flick of her hand. "Momo is busy, too, with her duties as a Vice Captain."

Renji gives a hesitant survey of the room. He can almost feel the proverbial hammer begin its slow descent toward his head.  _Gods, anyone but him._

"I was hoping you could help me out," Rukia murmurs shyly.

He quirks a brow at this. A multitude of excuses buzz in his head. Some of them are pretty good, but he capitulates to her beseeching glance. Always does.

"Okay." His voice sinks like a lead anchor.

Of course, he would oblige her. But, he doesn't know the first thing about dance. Not a damn thing. Hell, he isn't even sure if he's  _seen_  a dance. He's fairly sure he's attended events with traditional dances, but he never really paid them any heed. It's not something members of the Eleventh really do—watch  _art_. Or  _do_  art.

He nods to himself—mostly because he feels a dull strumming-sort of misery begin to well in his chest. But, his gesture sends Rukia springing to her feet, and, seemingly out of nowhere, she conjures up a fan.

 _Cripes, when has he become so predictable?_ he grouses to himself.

Rukia moves to the front of the room, nearly tripping over a few large  _tomes_  on dance in her excitement.

Of course.  _Books_. She  _would_  read books on dance. Why doesn't that surprise him?

"Yeah, so there won't be books on the stage," Rukia grumbles nervously to herself as she assumes a strange opening position. She flicks her fan open, and she begins.

He studies her not knowing quite  _what_  is happening. The moves don't really flow. Instead, she goes from one abrupt pose to another. The fan isn't really helping things either, he thinks. He suspects that she isn't supposed to be wielding it like a small blade. Just an inkling, there.

The fan's leaves flutter in front of her face when she finishes, and with large imploring eyes, she waits, holding the position a few moments longer. Her breath catches in her chest, and she watches him, scrutinizing his features for any signs of emotion.

No luck.

His face is blank as a board. He has no idea what to say so he goes with his gut reaction. "Looked weird."

Immediately, the taut cords that keep her in rigid position break free. Her shoulders slump forward and her hips square out. She flicks her fan closed and shoots him a haughty look. "Renji!" she says with great exasperation. "I've been practicing for  _hours_!"

"Hey, hey, hey" he begins, raising his hands, palm-side up, "Maybe  _weird_  is what it's  _supposed_  to look like. Not like I would know. Me. The guy who knows  _nothing_  about  _women's dance_."

Her eyes narrow, and she balls her free hand into a fist at her side. "What am I going to do?" she sighs, and, dejectedly, she drops into seiza on a cushion.

"Probably reading  _books_  isn't going to fix your problems." Just a thought. One that displeases Rukia. Deeply.

Rukia lifts her head, but the disappointed look etched across her face remains. "Sister danced this piece every year before she married brother. They brought her all the way from Rukongai to do it—she was that  _good_."

Renji's brows pop up at this. His imagination conjures an amusing mental image: Snooty highborn deigning to bring in a girl from Inuzuri to perform for them over and above their promising and talented daughters. Surely, Lady Kuchiki was stepping on noble toes way before she married.

"She can't do it this year?" Renji asks in earnest; however, he instantly regrets the question as soon as its implications fill his ears.

Never one to miss the opportunity to point out his moments of idiocy, Rukia shakes her head disapprovingly. " _No, Renji_ ," she begins in her patented deadpan, "It would be inappropriate to require a  _pregnant married woman_  to wear a furisode."

He flinches at the iciness of her voice, but he covers nicely by draining the sake from his cup, hoping the liquor will defrost the icicles that now dangle from his nerves. His poor, sad nerves.

"I am going to dishonor her memory and disgrace the family," Rukia prognosticates.

Renji scoffs at her.  _As if_ , he thinks to himself, severely questioning whether she actually  _believes_  she will disgrace the family.

"C'mon," he sighs, pulling her to her feet. He gives a long sad shake of his head. "Let's get to work." Grabbing her by her shoulders, he carts her out of the room.

"Are you sure?"

'Are you sure it can be done?' is what she is really asking.

"Of course."

Maybe?

 _Hopefully_ …

The moment the pair crosses the threshold, however, Renji nearly shoves Rukia headfirst into her brother. Byakuya, however, is quick to abandon course, and he narrowly avoids the imminent collision.

"Rukia," Byakuya observes. He halts and acknowledges both of them with an expression of wide-eyed umbrage.

Cold.

Renji only gets  _cold_  from Byakuya. Like permafrost. Rukia promises him that Byakuya isn't what he seems, but from where Renji stands, leveled by the noble's glacial stare and overwhelming reiatsu, he is beginning to question Rukia's judgment.

"Brother," Rukia says, voice dripping with some sort of heart-felt admiration that Renji is certain he will never experience, not if he lived ten thousand years.

She bows low.

 _Oh, yeah_.

_Bowing._

After a few painfully embarrassing moments, Renji remembers his manners. He follows Rukia's lead, and he bows. Low. Just as low as she does.

"Renji Abarai," Byakuya says and gives a small nod of his head. It isn't really approval. It isn't really an admonishment, either. Renji doesn't really know what it is. Etiquette? Byakuya is always polite even if it is sandwiched between two slices of cool apathy.

"Captain Kuchiki," Renji replies, mustering a respectful tenor.

Rukia has no idea that he applied for the Sixth's Vice Captaincy vacancy. No clue. At all.

Suddenly, he wishes he hadn't.

His gaze locks on the burnished hardwood floorboards. He can see his reflection. A deep shade of embarrassment paints his features, and he is certain that his secret has somehow escaped.

He hasn't said anything, though.

Neither has Byakuya.

"Would you mind escorting me to the squads, Abarai?"

* * *

"Of course," Hisana murmurs to herself as she fishes inside a box. Her heart soars the instant her fingers grasp the final puzzle piece. With eyes squeezed shut from the sheer force of smiling, she shakes the paper in her hand, relishing the warmth of achievement.

Now, hopefully, she has located enough of the data to model the past few years.

A familiar furry flutter catches the fall of her sleeves, and she glances down. "What do you think, Mr. Cat?" she says, shaking the sheet of paper. "It is so exciting!"

With a shake of its regal feline head, the cat then promptly proceeds to rip her happiness asunder as it curls around  _another_ box of data. One she missed.

"Eh," she sighs and inhales a deep breath. Feeling her chest expand until her muscles burn, she exhales slowly and eyes the box with great disdain. Her lips pull to the side, as she considers how many more hours she has of sorting. More puzzle pieces. So many more.

She stifles the urge to groan, but barely. "Well, you could've shown me that  _before_  my moment of reverie," she says teasingly under her breath.

Undeterred, the cat nudges the box open, and, clinging to a wall, the animal tips the container over. The papers spill across the floor in a white avalanche. Satisfied, the cat slinks inside, where it makes a few circular passes before plopping down to have itself a nice starefest at Hisana's expense. Seemingly, the cat bids Hisana to collate the data from the comfort of its box-palace.

A slow deflating sort of sigh falls from Hisana's lips. "In a minute." She still has to readjust her once grand expectations. Scowling, she inches to the scattered pages, but before she can stack them in her To Do pile, the door to the room creaks open.

"Lady Kuchiki," the steward's weathered voice reaches her through her staticky thoughts.

"Yes?" she responds. Reflexively, she finds the man through the thick shadows.

What happens next comes to her in a blur. She is certain the steward said something harrowing. Certain of it. The news has set off one big visceral chain reaction. Adrenaline floods her system, overrides it really. She can't think. Can't process. Certainly, she can't recall what Minamoto said that sent her into this downward spiral.

"Lady Kuchiki!"

In an instant, her fugue state shatters.

Hisana blinks. Finally, her thoughts quiet. Finally, the world pierces her confusion. Finally, she tethers herself to reality.

She is at the infirmary. How she got there, she doesn't know. Doesn't even bother to question it. She merely follows the orderly to her husband.

Tears burn in her eyes. In fact, her whole body feels like it is burning up, like she has caught flame. She can't think. Can't process. It is all a blur, but she bolts forward. Her fingers curl around his lifeless hands, and she glances up into the beeping machines that line the bed. She doesn't know why she bothers. Her vision is swimming, and, even if she wasn't blinded by tears, she can't read the monitors; they flicker in a language that she has never bothered to learn despite it all.

But, they are still making sounds. That is good, she tells herself. She knows what  _bad_  sounds like. It sounds like electronic howling.

The machines, however, aren't howling. Indeed, as she holds his hand, she hears the beeping and hissing slow. Slow seems preferable. She hopes. Prays.

Somehow, someway, a chair manifests out of thin air, and she sits and stares. The thoughts are too painful. The reality, even more so. So, she sits, numb and unthinking.

"Lady Kuchiki?"

She doesn't hear her title, too consumed by the steady grief that churns through her veins.

"Lady Kuchiki?" This time the voice, a low male tone, begins to pull at the strings of her awareness. It is only a peripheral nuisance, however. It doesn't fully sink in. It doesn't move her.

The hand against her shoulder, however, rouses her.

"Lady Kuchiki?"

She jolts up as if she has been electrocuted, but, upon seeing the familiar face, her nerves settle. "Mr. Abarai," she murmurs.

Renji appears out of sorts. Unwell. His red hair, normally swept up off his shoulders, falls freely down his back. A wound above his brow has been patched with surgical glue; the residue of which still glistens in the florescent lighting.

She turns before his words can reach her. She already knows the line, as if fate has written it a thousand years before. She doesn't need to  _hear_  it. She pretends it never happened, pushes it away as soon as her ears prickle at the weight of his words in the air.

Turning her attention to her husband, she brushes a few stray stands of hair from his face. His flesh is cold, too cold, and her heart sinks like a stone.

"What happened?" she asks, despondent.

Nothing.

Renji stands behind her. She can feel it, but he doesn't answer her. Before an uncomfortable silence has the chance to slip between them, she repeats the question.

"He protected his squads and mine. He fell protecting me."

"Is the perpetrator vanquished?"

"Not all of them."

She arches her head, but she refuses eye contact. "Where did—"

"The group fled."

Her gaze drifts to her lap. "Where?"

"I don't—"

She stands before he has the chance to finish. "Come with me, Abarai." She has an idea. It is particularly reckless. If she pursues it, she knows the fallout will be extravagant.

Obediently, he follows her.

"If we can narrow the target area, I will close all the trade routes to Rukongai to hinder escape efforts. I have—"

"Done."

She lifts her head. "Do you think?" She doesn't finish her question. Renji is strong, but….

"I will finish it."

Pride.

His voice swells with broken pride. She knows that sound well, better than she would like to admit. "Do you have your communication device?" she asks. Feeling defensive against the thoughts swirling in her head, she folds her arms against her chest.

"Yes?" Uncertainty creases his brow as he withdraws the device from his robes. It looks banged up, but it is operational.

Hisana glances down at the equipment's number, and she commits it to memory. "I will send you the coordinates when I locate them."

"Lady Kuchiki," he says warningly. "If you use your ... then…."

She shakes her head.  _Enough_. She would sacrifice everything for her family. Forfeiting years of hard work to the Gotei 13 is a mere pittance.

"I will provide all the support functions," she says and gives a stern nod of her head. There will be no questions, only actions.

"Yes, Lady Kuchiki."

Before Renji can provide all the details of what happened when the mission went awry, a commanding but familiar voice interrupts him mid-sentence. "You don't think  _you_  are going after the thugs that landed the captain of the Sixth at the Fourth all by yourself, Abarai?"

Renji doesn't even bother with a greeting. He just shoots the men a piercing sidelong glare.

"You think you get to hog all the glory?"

"Yeah, Abarai, it isn't very kind to deprive your fellow officers their chance at having fun."

Hisana acknowledges the two Eleventh division soldiers with a nodding glance. She doesn't know them, and she doesn't really care to be introduced at the moment. The more, the merrier. "I will send the coordinates, Mr. Abarai," she says. The moment that she hears the dissonance of men squabbling over  _things_ , she turns on her heels.

Taking a few strides toward the door, Hisana pauses. "If it wouldn't be too much," the sound of her voice quiets them, "please, bring me a token of your conquests. I will compensate you handsomely."

"What sort of token?" the less ornately styled of Renji's comrades inquires with some caution.

"Preferably, the heads."

Message sent; message received: Don't fuck with a Kuchiki.


End file.
